Kitabı oku: «The Tragedy of King Lear», sayfa 3

Scene II. Before Gloucester's Castle

Enter Kent and [Oswald the] Steward, severally.

 
  Osw. Good dawning to thee, friend. Art of this house?
  Kent. Ay.
  Osw. Where may we set our horses?
  Kent. I' th' mire.
  Osw. Prithee, if thou lov'st me, tell me.
  Kent. I love thee not.
  Osw. Why then, I care not for thee.
  Kent. If I had thee in Lipsbury Pinfold, I would make thee care
for
     me.
  Osw. Why dost thou use me thus? I know thee not.
  Kent. Fellow, I know thee.
  Osw. What dost thou know me for?
  Kent. A knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a base,
proud,
     shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy,
     worsted-stocking knave; a lily-liver'd, action-taking,
whoreson,
     glass-gazing, superserviceable, finical rogue;
     one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd in
way of
     good service, and art nothing but the composition of a
knave,
     beggar, coward, pander, and the son and heir of a mongrel
bitch;
     one whom I will beat into clamorous whining, if thou deny
the
     least syllable of thy addition.
  Osw. Why, what a monstrous fellow art thou, thus to rail on one
     that's neither known of thee nor knows thee!
  Kent. What a brazen-fac'd varlet art thou, to deny thou knowest
me!
     Is it two days ago since I beat thee and tripp'd up thy
heels
     before the King? [Draws his sword.] Draw, you rogue! for,
though
     it be night, yet the moon shines. I'll make a sop o' th'
     moonshine o' you. Draw, you whoreson cullionly barbermonger!
     draw!
  Osw. Away! I have nothing to do with thee.
  Kent. Draw, you rascal! You come with letters against the King,
and
     take Vanity the puppet's part against the royalty of her
father.
     Draw, you rogue, or I'll so carbonado your shanks! Draw, you
     rascal! Come your ways!
  Osw. Help, ho! murther! help!
  Kent. Strike, you slave! Stand, rogue! Stand, you neat slave!
     Strike! [Beats him.]
  Osw. Help, ho! murther! murther!
 

Enter Edmund, with his rapier drawn, Gloucester, Cornwall, Regan, Servants

 
  Edm. How now? What's the matter? Parts [them].
  Kent. With you, goodman boy, an you please! Come, I'll flesh
ye!
     Come on, young master!
  Glou. Weapons? arms? What's the matter here?
  Corn. Keep peace, upon your lives!
     He dies that strikes again. What is the matter?
  Reg. The messengers from our sister and the King
  Corn. What is your difference? Speak.
  Osw. I am scarce in breath, my lord.
  Kent. No marvel, you have so bestirr'd your valour. You
cowardly
     rascal, nature disclaims in thee; a tailor made thee.
  Corn. Thou art a strange fellow. A tailor make a man?
  Kent. Ay, a tailor, sir. A stonecutter or a painter could not
have
     made him so ill, though he had been but two hours at the
trade.
  Corn. Speak yet, how grew your quarrel?
  Osw. This ancient ruffian, sir, whose life I have spar'd
     At suit of his grey beard-
  Kent. Thou whoreson zed! thou unnecessary letter! My lord, if
     you'll give me leave, I will tread this unbolted villain
into
     mortar and daub the walls of a jakes with him. 'Spare my
grey
     beard,' you wagtail?
  Corn. Peace, sirrah!
     You beastly knave, know you no reverence?
  Kent. Yes, sir, but anger hath a privilege.
  Corn. Why art thou angry?
  Kent. That such a slave as this should wear a sword,
     Who wears no honesty. Such smiling rogues as these,
     Like rats, oft bite the holy cords atwain
     Which are too intrinse t' unloose; smooth every passion
     That in the natures of their lords rebel,
     Bring oil to fire, snow to their colder moods;
     Renege, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaks
     With every gale and vary of their masters,
     Knowing naught (like dogs) but following.
     A plague upon your epileptic visage!
     Smile you my speeches, as I were a fool?
     Goose, an I had you upon Sarum Plain,
     I'ld drive ye cackling home to Camelot.
  Corn. What, art thou mad, old fellow?
  Glou. How fell you out? Say that.
  Kent. No contraries hold more antipathy
     Than I and such a knave.
  Corn. Why dost thou call him knave? What is his fault?
  Kent. His countenance likes me not.
  Corn. No more perchance does mine, or his, or hers.
  Kent. Sir, 'tis my occupation to be plain.
     I have seen better faces in my time
     Than stands on any shoulder that I see
     Before me at this instant.
  Corn. This is some fellow
     Who, having been prais'd for bluntness, doth affect
     A saucy roughness, and constrains the garb
     Quite from his nature. He cannot flatter, he!
     An honest mind and plain- he must speak truth!
     An they will take it, so; if not, he's plain.
     These kind of knaves I know which in this plainness
     Harbour more craft and more corrupter ends
     Than twenty silly-ducking observants
     That stretch their duties nicely.
  Kent. Sir, in good faith, in sincere verity,
     Under th' allowance of your great aspect,
     Whose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire
     On flickering Phoebus' front-
  Corn. What mean'st by this?
  Kent. To go out of my dialect, which you discommend so much. I
     know, sir, I am no flatterer. He that beguil'd you in a
plain
     accent was a plain knave, which, for my part, I will not be,
     though I should win your displeasure to entreat me to't.
  Corn. What was th' offence you gave him?
  Osw. I never gave him any.
     It pleas'd the King his master very late
     To strike at me, upon his misconstruction;
     When he, conjunct, and flattering his displeasure,
     Tripp'd me behind; being down, insulted, rail'd
     And put upon him such a deal of man
     That worthied him, got praises of the King
     For him attempting who was self-subdu'd;
     And, in the fleshment of this dread exploit,
     Drew on me here again.
  Kent. None of these rogues and cowards
     But Ajax is their fool.
  Corn. Fetch forth the stocks!
     You stubborn ancient knave, you reverent braggart,
     We'll teach you-
  Kent. Sir, I am too old to learn.
     Call not your stocks for me. I serve the King;
     On whose employment I was sent to you.
     You shall do small respect, show too bold malice
     Against the grace and person of my master,
     Stocking his messenger.
  Corn. Fetch forth the stocks! As I have life and honour,
     There shall he sit till noon.
  Reg. Till noon? Till night, my lord, and all night too!
  Kent. Why, madam, if I were your father's dog,
     You should not use me so.
  Reg. Sir, being his knave, I will.
  Corn. This is a fellow of the selfsame colour
     Our sister speaks of. Come, bring away the stocks!
                                             Stocks brought out.
  Glou. Let me beseech your Grace not to do so.
     His fault is much, and the good King his master
     Will check him for't. Your purpos'd low correction
     Is such as basest and contemn'dest wretches
     For pilf'rings and most common trespasses
     Are punish'd with. The King must take it ill
     That he, so slightly valued in his messenger,
     Should have him thus restrain'd.
  Corn. I'll answer that.
  Reg. My sister may receive it much more worse,
     To have her gentleman abus'd, assaulted,
     For following her affairs. Put in his legs. -
                                    [Kent is put in the stocks.]
     Come, my good lord, away.
                           Exeunt [all but Gloucester and Kent].
  Glou. I am sorry for thee, friend. 'Tis the Duke's pleasure,
     Whose disposition, all the world well knows,
     Will not be rubb'd nor stopp'd. I'll entreat for thee.
  Kent. Pray do not, sir. I have watch'd and travell'd hard.
     Some time I shall sleep out, the rest I'll whistle.
     A good man's fortune may grow out at heels.
     Give you good morrow!
  Glou. The Duke 's to blame in this; 'twill be ill taken.
Exit.
  Kent. Good King, that must approve the common saw,
     Thou out of heaven's benediction com'st
     To the warm sun!
     Approach, thou beacon to this under globe,
     That by thy comfortable beams I may
     Peruse this letter. Nothing almost sees miracles
     But misery. I know 'tis from Cordelia,
     Who hath most fortunately been inform'd
     Of my obscured course- and [reads] 'shall find time
     From this enormous state, seeking to give
     Losses their remedies'– All weary and o'erwatch'd,
     Take vantage, heavy eyes, not to behold
     This shameful lodging.
     Fortune, good night; smile once more, turn thy wheel.
                                                         Sleeps.
 

Scene III. The open country

Enter Edgar.

 
  Edg. I heard myself proclaim'd,
     And by the happy hollow of a tree
     Escap'd the hunt. No port is free, no place
     That guard and most unusual vigilance
     Does not attend my taking. Whiles I may scape,
     I will preserve myself; and am bethought
     To take the basest and most poorest shape
     That ever penury, in contempt of man,
     Brought near to beast. My face I'll grime with filth,
     Blanket my loins, elf all my hair in knots,
     And with presented nakedness outface
     The winds and persecutions of the sky.
     The country gives me proof and precedent
     Of Bedlam beggars, who, with roaring voices,
     Strike in their numb'd and mortified bare arms
     Pins, wooden pricks, nails, sprigs of rosemary;
     And with this horrible object, from low farms,
     Poor pelting villages, sheepcotes, and mills,
     Sometime with lunatic bans, sometime with prayers,
     Enforce their charity. 'Poor Turlygod! poor Tom!'
     That's something yet! Edgar I nothing am. Exit.
 

Scene IV. Before Gloucester's Castle; Kent in the stocks

Enter Lear, Fool, and Gentleman.

 
  Lear. 'Tis strange that they should so depart from home,
     And not send back my messenger.
  Gent. As I learn'd,
     The night before there was no purpose in them
     Of this remove.
  Kent. Hail to thee, noble master!
  Lear. Ha!
     Mak'st thou this shame thy pastime?
  Kent. No, my lord.
  Fool. Ha, ha! look! he wears cruel garters. Horses are tied by
the
     head, dogs and bears by th' neck, monkeys by th' loins, and
men
     by th' legs. When a man's over-lusty at legs, then he wears
     wooden nether-stocks.
  Lear. What's he that hath so much thy place mistook
     To set thee here?
  Kent. It is both he and she-
     Your son and daughter.
  Lear. No.
  Kent. Yes.
  Lear. No, I say.
  Kent. I say yea.
  Lear. No, no, they would not!
  Kent. Yes, they have.
  Lear. By Jupiter, I swear no!
  Kent. By Juno, I swear ay!
  Lear. They durst not do't;
     They would not, could not do't. 'Tis worse than murther
     To do upon respect such violent outrage.
     Resolve me with all modest haste which way
     Thou mightst deserve or they impose this usage,
     Coming from us.
  Kent. My lord, when at their home
     I did commend your Highness' letters to them,
     Ere I was risen from the place that show'd
     My duty kneeling, came there a reeking post,
     Stew'd in his haste, half breathless, panting forth
     From Goneril his mistress salutations;
     Deliver'd letters, spite of intermission,
     Which presently they read; on whose contents,
     They summon'd up their meiny, straight took horse,
     Commanded me to follow and attend
     The leisure of their answer, gave me cold looks,
     And meeting here the other messenger,
     Whose welcome I perceiv'd had poison'd mine-
     Being the very fellow which of late
     Display'd so saucily against your Highness-
     Having more man than wit about me, drew.
     He rais'd the house with loud and coward cries.
     Your son and daughter found this trespass worth
     The shame which here it suffers.
  Fool. Winter's not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way.
 
 
          Fathers that wear rags
            Do make their children blind;
          But fathers that bear bags
            Shall see their children kind.
          Fortune, that arrant whore,
          Ne'er turns the key to th' poor.
 
 
     But for all this, thou shalt have as many dolours for thy
     daughters as thou canst tell in a year.
  Lear. O, how this mother swells up toward my heart!
     Hysterica passio! Down, thou climbing sorrow!
     Thy element's below! Where is this daughter?
  Kent. With the Earl, sir, here within.
  Lear. Follow me not;
     Stay here. Exit.
  Gent. Made you no more offence but what you speak of?
  Kent. None.
     How chance the King comes with so small a number?
  Fool. An thou hadst been set i' th' stocks for that question,
     thou'dst well deserv'd it.
  Kent. Why, fool?
  Fool. We'll set thee to school to an ant, to teach thee there's
no
     labouring i' th' winter. All that follow their noses are led
by
     their eyes but blind men, and there's not a nose among
twenty
     but can smell him that's stinking. Let go thy hold when a
great
     wheel runs down a hill, lest it break thy neck with
following
     it; but the great one that goes upward, let him draw thee
after.
     When a wise man gives thee better counsel, give me mine
again. I
     would have none but knaves follow it, since a fool gives it.
          That sir which serves and seeks for gain,
            And follows but for form,
          Will pack when it begins to rain
            And leave thee in the storm.
          But I will tarry; the fool will stay,
            And let the wise man fly.
          The knave turns fool that runs away;
            The fool no knave, perdy.
  Kent. Where learn'd you this, fool?
  Fool. Not i' th' stocks, fool.
 

Enter Lear and Gloucester

 
  Lear. Deny to speak with me? They are sick? they are weary?
     They have travell'd all the night? Mere fetches-
     The images of revolt and flying off!
     Fetch me a better answer.
  Glou. My dear lord,
     You know the fiery quality of the Duke,
     How unremovable and fix'd he is
     In his own course.
  Lear. Vengeance! plague! death! confusion!
     Fiery? What quality? Why, Gloucester, Gloucester,
     I'ld speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife.
  Glou. Well, my good lord, I have inform'd them so.
  Lear. Inform'd them? Dost thou understand me, man?
  Glou. Ay, my good lord.
  Lear. The King would speak with Cornwall; the dear father
     Would with his daughter speak, commands her service.
     Are they inform'd of this? My breath and blood!
     Fiery? the fiery Duke? Tell the hot Duke that-
     No, but not yet! May be he is not well.
     Infirmity doth still neglect all office
     Whereto our health is bound. We are not ourselves
     When nature, being oppress'd, commands the mind
     To suffer with the body. I'll forbear;
     And am fallen out with my more headier will,
     To take the indispos'd and sickly fit
     For the sound man. – Death on my state! Wherefore
     Should be sit here? This act persuades me
     That this remotion of the Duke and her
     Is practice only. Give me my servant forth.
     Go tell the Duke and 's wife I'ld speak with them-
     Now, presently. Bid them come forth and hear me,
     Or at their chamber door I'll beat the drum
     Till it cry sleep to death.
  Glou. I would have all well betwixt you. Exit.
  Lear. O me, my heart, my rising heart! But down!
  Fool. Cry to it, nuncle, as the cockney did to the eels when
she
     put 'em i' th' paste alive. She knapp'd 'em o' th' coxcombs
with
     a stick and cried 'Down, wantons, down!' 'Twas her brother
that,
     in pure kindness to his horse, buttered his hay.
 

Enter Cornwall, Regan, Gloucester, Servants.

 
  Lear. Good morrow to you both.
  Corn. Hail to your Grace!
                                       Kent here set at liberty.
  Reg. I am glad to see your Highness.
  Lear. Regan, I think you are; I know what reason
     I have to think so. If thou shouldst not be glad,
     I would divorce me from thy mother's tomb,
     Sepulchring an adultress. [To Kent] O, are you free?
     Some other time for that. – Beloved Regan,
     Thy sister's naught. O Regan, she hath tied
     Sharp-tooth'd unkindness, like a vulture, here!
                                   [Lays his hand on his heart.]
     I can scarce speak to thee. Thou'lt not believe
     With how deprav'd a quality- O Regan!
  Reg. I pray you, sir, take patience. I have hope
     You less know how to value her desert
     Than she to scant her duty.
  Lear. Say, how is that?
  Reg. I cannot think my sister in the least
     Would fail her obligation. If, sir, perchance
     She have restrain'd the riots of your followers,
     'Tis on such ground, and to such wholesome end,
     As clears her from all blame.
  Lear. My curses on her!
  Reg. O, sir, you are old!
     Nature in you stands on the very verge
     Of her confine. You should be rul'd, and led
     By some discretion that discerns your state
     Better than you yourself. Therefore I pray you
     That to our sister you do make return;
     Say you have wrong'd her, sir.
  Lear. Ask her forgiveness?
     Do you but mark how this becomes the house:
     'Dear daughter, I confess that I am old. [Kneels.]
     Age is unnecessary. On my knees I beg
     That you'll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food.'
  Reg. Good sir, no more! These are unsightly tricks.
     Return you to my sister.
  Lear. [rises] Never, Regan!
     She hath abated me of half my train;
     Look'd black upon me; struck me with her tongue,
     Most serpent-like, upon the very heart.
     All the stor'd vengeances of heaven fall
     On her ingrateful top! Strike her young bones,
     You taking airs, with lameness!
  Corn. Fie, sir, fie!
  Lear. You nimble lightnings, dart your blinding flames
     Into her scornful eyes! Infect her beauty,
     You fen-suck'd fogs, drawn by the pow'rful sun,
     To fall and blast her pride!
  Reg. O the blest gods! so will you wish on me
     When the rash mood is on.
  Lear. No, Regan, thou shalt never have my curse.
     Thy tender-hefted nature shall not give
     Thee o'er to harshness. Her eyes are fierce; but thine
     Do comfort, and not burn. 'Tis not in thee
     To grudge my pleasures, to cut off my train,
     To bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes,
     And, in conclusion, to oppose the bolt
     Against my coming in. Thou better know'st
     The offices of nature, bond of childhood,
     Effects of courtesy, dues of gratitude.
     Thy half o' th' kingdom hast thou not forgot,
     Wherein I thee endow'd.
  Reg. Good sir, to th' purpose.
                                                  Tucket within.
  Lear. Who put my man i' th' stocks?
  Corn. What trumpet's that?
  Reg. I know't- my sister's. This approves her letter,
     That she would soon be here.
 

Enter [Oswald the] Steward.

 
     Is your lady come?
  Lear. This is a slave, whose easy-borrowed pride
     Dwells in the fickle grace of her he follows.
     Out, varlet, from my sight!
  Corn. What means your Grace?
 

Enter Goneril.

 
  Lear. Who stock'd my servant? Regan, I have good hope
     Thou didst not know on't. – Who comes here? O heavens!
     If you do love old men, if your sweet sway
     Allow obedience- if yourselves are old,
     Make it your cause! Send down, and take my part!
     [To Goneril] Art not asham'd to look upon this beard? -
     O Regan, wilt thou take her by the hand?
  Gon. Why not by th' hand, sir? How have I offended?
     All's not offence that indiscretion finds
     And dotage terms so.
  Lear. O sides, you are too tough!
     Will you yet hold? How came my man i' th' stocks?
  Corn. I set him there, sir; but his own disorders
     Deserv'd much less advancement.
  Lear. You? Did you?
  Reg. I pray you, father, being weak, seem so.
     If, till the expiration of your month,
     You will return and sojourn with my sister,
     Dismissing half your train, come then to me.
     I am now from home, and out of that provision
     Which shall be needful for your entertainment.
  Lear. Return to her, and fifty men dismiss'd?
     No, rather I abjure all roofs, and choose
     To wage against the enmity o' th' air,
     To be a comrade with the wolf and owl-
     Necessity's sharp pinch! Return with her?
     Why, the hot-blooded France, that dowerless took
     Our youngest born, I could as well be brought
     To knee his throne, and, squire-like, pension beg
     To keep base life afoot. Return with her?
     Persuade me rather to be slave and sumpter
     To this detested groom. [Points at Oswald.]
  Gon. At your choice, sir.
  Lear. I prithee, daughter, do not make me mad.
     I will not trouble thee, my child; farewell.
     We'll no more meet, no more see one another.
     But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter;
     Or rather a disease that's in my flesh,
     Which I must needs call mine. Thou art a boil,
     A plague sore, an embossed carbuncle
     In my corrupted blood. But I'll not chide thee.
     Let shame come when it will, I do not call it.
     I do not bid the Thunder-bearer shoot
     Nor tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove.
     Mend when thou canst; be better at thy leisure;
     I can be patient, I can stay with Regan,
     I and my hundred knights.
  Reg. Not altogether so.
     I look'd not for you yet, nor am provided
     For your fit welcome. Give ear, sir, to my sister;
     For those that mingle reason with your passion
     Must be content to think you old, and so-
     But she knows what she does.
  Lear. Is this well spoken?
  Reg. I dare avouch it, sir. What, fifty followers?
     Is it not well? What should you need of more?
     Yea, or so many, sith that both charge and danger
     Speak 'gainst so great a number? How in one house
     Should many people, under two commands,
     Hold amity? 'Tis hard; almost impossible.
  Gon. Why might not you, my lord, receive attendance
     From those that she calls servants, or from mine?
  Reg. Why not, my lord? If then they chanc'd to slack ye,
     We could control them. If you will come to me
     (For now I spy a danger), I entreat you
     To bring but five-and-twenty. To no more
     Will I give place or notice.
  Lear. I gave you all-
  Reg. And in good time you gave it!
  Lear. Made you my guardians, my depositaries;
     But kept a reservation to be followed
     With such a number. What, must I come to you
     With five-and-twenty, Regan? Said you so?
  Reg. And speak't again my lord. No more with me.
  Lear. Those wicked creatures yet do look well-favour'd
     When others are more wicked; not being the worst
     Stands in some rank of praise. [To Goneril] I'll go with
thee.
     Thy fifty yet doth double five-and-twenty,
     And thou art twice her love.
  Gon. Hear, me, my lord.
     What need you five-and-twenty, ten, or five,
     To follow in a house where twice so many
     Have a command to tend you?
  Reg. What need one?
  Lear. O, reason not the need! Our basest beggars
     Are in the poorest thing superfluous.
     Allow not nature more than nature needs,
     Man's life is cheap as beast's. Thou art a lady:
     If only to go warm were gorgeous,
     Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st
     Which scarcely keeps thee warm. But, for true need-
     You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need!
     You see me here, you gods, a poor old man,
     As full of grief as age; wretched in both.
     If it be you that stirs these daughters' hearts
     Against their father, fool me not so much
     To bear it tamely; touch me with noble anger,
     And let not women's weapons, water drops,
     Stain my man's cheeks! No, you unnatural hags!
     I will have such revenges on you both
     That all the world shall- I will do such things-
     What they are yet, I know not; but they shall be
     The terrors of the earth! You think I'll weep.
     No, I'll not weep.
     I have full cause of weeping, but this heart
     Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws
     Or ere I'll weep. O fool, I shall go mad!
 

Exeunt Lear, Gloucester, Kent, and Fool. Storm and tempest

 
  Corn. Let us withdraw; 'twill be a storm.
  Reg. This house is little; the old man and 's people
     Cannot be well bestow'd.
  Gon. 'Tis his own blame; hath put himself from rest
     And must needs taste his folly.
  Reg. For his particular, I'll receive him gladly,
     But not one follower.
  Gon. So am I purpos'd.
     Where is my Lord of Gloucester?
  Corn. Followed the old man forth.
 

Enter Gloucester.

 
     He is return'd.
  Glou. The King is in high rage.
  Corn. Whither is he going?
  Glou. He calls to horse, but will I know not whither.
  Corn. 'Tis best to give him way; he leads himself.
  Gon. My lord, entreat him by no means to stay.
  Glou. Alack, the night comes on, and the bleak winds
     Do sorely ruffle. For many miles about
     There's scarce a bush.
  Reg. O, sir, to wilful men
     The injuries that they themselves procure
     Must be their schoolmasters. Shut up your doors.
     He is attended with a desperate train,
     And what they may incense him to, being apt
     To have his ear abus'd, wisdom bids fear.
  Corn. Shut up your doors, my lord: 'tis a wild night.
     My Regan counsels well. Come out o' th' storm.
 

[Exeunt.]